After The Show
by TheOwletQueen
Summary: Picks up directly where the movie ended. After escaping from the show, how will Truman deal with his life? This fic is quite... angsty and deals not only with what happens afterwards, but also with the effect Truman's realization of having been in a show will have on his mind. Pretty heavy topic/s, that's why it's M. Nothing sexual though. Don't like - don't read.


**This is the continuation of "The Truman Show" as I see it. It begins directly after the movie ends (and also shares the last line) and then moves on.**

**Actually, this was an essay I had to do for my english class, the task being "What is Truman's life after the show?". Apart from the fact that my classmates only wrote about 500 words (if even), this is simply a homework I wanted to post here.  
**

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"And in case I don't see you: Good afternoon, good evening and goodnight!"

He bowed to his invisible audience, turned around and stepped into the darkness. As a kid, he remembered, he had been scared of the darkness, had imagined people watching him every second. How ironic!, he thought. Because there had been people looking, prying, spying all the time.

With a huff, he let go of the door handle and dared another step into the room. His eyes started adjusting to the loss of light and he could see more and more. It was a small room with the occasional cable running along the walls and disappearing.

Directly opposite of the door to Seahaven was another one, three, four steps away. Truman quickly crossed the distance and tried the handle. It didn't give way. It was locked.

He stepped back in disbelief.

"Really, Christof?", he asked bitterly. "Really?!"

Then his gaze fell onto the sign.

_Door opens only when door opposite is closed._

Well. There went the miracle.

He nearly banged the Seahaven door shut and the room went abruptly dark. Slowly, Truman made his way over to the other door, feeling his way with his arms outstretched. The metal was cold and it sent shivers over his spine.

What would the outside world be like? Like Seahaven or... different? Would people recognize him? Would Sylvia be there, anywhere? Would he – what would he do? What _could _he do? He had no graduation, he had no place to live, he had no money, he had nothing! People would see Truman whenever he went on the streets! _Truman _– even his name seemed sickening. Truman - True man., he thought with disgust. The only true person in what seemed a real world.

He grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. Outside, there was a dimly lit corridor. Looking left and right, Truman ensured that it was deserted.

Suddenly, anger flared up in his chest. _Christof _– he had never met the man, but he was sick, so sick! Tuman was sure of it. He would still try to profit from Truman, sell him as a curiosity like a strangely formed oyster.

Never in his life had Truman wanted to hurt a person, never. But Christof made him want it, made him want to have him pay for it, made him want to kill him.

Approaching footsteps and talking of a larger number of people shook him awake. There was neither time nor need for being nice, for being Truman. Not now.

Looking left and right again, Truman was rather sure that the crowd came from the left. So he dashed along the corridor so fast, it would have made an Olympic champion green with envy.

That was probably the reason he nearly face-planted into the door at the end of the corridor. Skidding to a halt, he flung this door open as well and nearly fell down the stairs that lay before him. They clanked metallically as he hurried down. Finally on the earth, Truman looked around.

It looked pretty much like the surrounding area of Seahaven. There was a small parking lot that was hardly occupied, a booth where a security man should be but wasn't, and after that a long, long road in the midst of large cow paddocks. The animals were asleep and didn't seem to be bothered by the events that had happened on world's biggest TV stage.

Truman took some steps away from the staircase and looked up. From the outside, it was unflattering. A giant grey cereal bowl that was the wrong side up.

Something disturbed his vision. Wind had blown a strand of his hair into his eyes. He pushed it back to where it belonged.

Wind. Real, actual wind. Wind that was making the grass before him look like a green sea with waves. Wind that could be heard faintly in some of the trees.

This time, it was not hair that made his vision loose its clarity. It was tears.

The world – the real, true outside world – was here, and he was there. And it was all real, and he wasn't crazy, but he was there, and it was all too much for a moment.

A soft _moo _from a cow that had appeared near the fence made him smile. Truman quickly crossed the distance and leaned against the wood.

"Well, hello, you.", he said softly.

The cow stared at him and continued chewing.

He looked around. It was crazy. It was so absolutely crazy! His head got light and lighter and suddenly he was laughing hysterically, the fence being the only thing that kept him upright.

Turning around again, he wanted to drop himself in the grass, laughing until his sides would hurt. The view of the studio sobered him quickly.

He had to get away before they would come. Christof would send people to lock him up again.

Truman bit his lip. His gaze fell onto the three cars parked in the parking lot. And then the security booth.

Getting up, he all but ran over to the booth. It wasn't locked. Oh thank heaven. Apparently, people left their car keys here. A Ford, a Chevrolet and a Chrysler. Chevrolet it was, Truman decided and took the keys.

He was in the car in no time and simply hit the gas. The tires screeched but obeyed.

He watched the road fly by as the car was soon over a hundred miles per hour. Only then he realized that he should have looked more closely: the gas tank was nearly empty.

He cursed and drove even faster.

About fifteen minutes later, he could make out the skyline of a city in the distance. The engine of his car stuttered and it slowed down a bit.

"Come on!", he pleaded. "You can't do that right now! Please." Talking to cars now. Wonderful. Maybe he _was _crazy after all.

Not even five minutes later – the skyline hadn't moved a bit – the engine died down abruptly. The safety belt cut into Truman's upper body but held his weight as the car came to an immediate stop.

Another car appeared some hundred metres ahead of him. It was red... like a jacket he remembered way too good.

He got out of his car, and just seconds later the red one screeched to a stop next to him and a woman scrambled out. His heart skipped a beat.

It wasn't possible, it couldn't be!

And then, suddenly, she grabbed him and held him and was crying and so was he and it was all too perfect.

"Truman!", she got out between sobs and incomprehensible syllables. He answered with an equally teary "Sylvia!".

It didn't last long, though. She pushed him away.

"Truman, we _have _to get out of here. They will be coming after you."

"I know.", he answered. "How?"

"I'm watching over a friend's apartment for some time while she's away. We're going to hide there."

"We? Sylvia, you don't have to do this!"

She shook his shoulders and her head aggressively. "Of course I do! I am an executive member of the 'Free Truman' group. And... there is really no way I'm not doing whatever I can do for you. Now, come on. I have to get you off the road in case they are already coming."

That's how Truman found himself in the living room of a quite colorful apartment only half an hour later. He was restless. Sylvia went out to do some shopping and told him to wait, sit on the couch and read a book maybe.

He couldn't, though. Every time he heard a movement, a car honking on the street below or just any noise, be it caused by him or not, he was startled.

When she came back, he didn't tell her. He didn't want her to be worried, because she clearly already was.

He changed into different clothes while she cooked. Noodles. Something familiar. It was his favourite food.

They ate in silence mostly, but towards the end of the meal he couldn't bear it anymore: "Sylvia, tell me! Tell me about the Truman Show."

She gave him an unhappy smile and lay down her fork. "The Truman Show has been the most discussed legal case for three decades now. At first, it wasn't that much. There were people who enjoyed watching it, there were those who didn't and there were those who tried and failed to sue Christof. But then, it became more. There are people who kind of worship you as a god, and that if someone would remove you from the show, this would be a sacrilege. There are some maniacs who did really kill people who found the show inhuman. There were so, so many trials over you, whether to keep you in the show or not. When it comes to you, world goes crazy. There are demonstrations almost every weekend, especially since the show began to have issues. But there were demonstrations before that as well. Not only for teenagers the Truman Show has become more important than every other show. There was this one guy, a weather presenter. He and you looked alike, and some nutcase thought he was you. That guy was found dead some time later, beaten up."

She watched him intensely.

"Truman, it is not your fault.", Sylvia said and gently took his hand. "None of it is."

"I have nothing to do.", he said quietly. "I have nowhere to be, I have nothing... I am... There is nothing I can do. It would have been better if I had stayed in Seahaven. I had a job there, a life... a roof over my head, money to buy food... I wasn't something special there. Well, yes, I was, but I could walk on the streets withough being recognized. I think that wouldn't work here."

She shook her head. "I'm so sorry."

Truman hung his head.

He didn't sleep that night. Not the next one, either. He could hardly move around the apartment without looking for cameras. There was nothing he could do, not a single thing.

Until...

They both sat on the couch that day, watching the evening news, when the idea sparked in his head.

"I could sue him, right? Make him pay."

Sylvia knew what he was talking about. "Of course you could."

"Should I?"

She made sure to make direct eye contact while replying: "I would like nothing better."

It turned out that her friend, the one who owned the apartment, was a lawyer. And a pretty good one, too. And also member of the 'Free Truman' movement.

When he reflected on that time later, it was all a blur. From meeting the woman – Sandy – to working out the case, their arguments, everything.

Then, they were on their way to the trial when it happened. They had had to park the car across the street. Truman wore sunglasses, a hat and a long coat, even if it was midsummer.

It was actually his first time out since he got out of the show. They walked over the street, Sandy and Sylvia casually talking to keep their stress levels down a bit.

He was hardly listening when Sylvia suddenly grabbed his shoulder.

"Truman! Down!", she yelled. But he refused, staring at her instead.

"Why?", he inquired. Then he heard the gunshot and then there was blood all over him and Sylvia went limp against him and fell.

"No.", he said, not quite believing, not quite not believing. "No!"

"Sylvia!" Sandy dropped to her knees next to him. Had he been kneeling? He didn't know. It was so unreal. All of it. Including the pool of blood around Sylvia's head.

The policeman later told Truman that it had been a clean shot. She died instantly. Without any pain. The officer was a gruff man who left after taking the necessary data. He ignored the fact that it was Truman Burbanks in front of him. And he was so, so grateful for that.

The trial was being postponed, but not long.

The actual trial wasn't long, either. Though Christof tried to act as Truman's father, neither he nor Sandy were impressed by it. The judge, who was a member of the 'Free Truman' group – oh, the coincidence! – made sure Christof and his company had to pay an insane amount of money not only to Truman, but also to various welfare projects all over the globe. Christof, however, was committed to a mental hospital, locked away for the rest of his life.

The media was overwhelmed by those happenings. There were thousands of interviews, documentaries and so on. Everybody who was important and who wasn't was interviewed. Every publically known person made a comment.

And it took the media three whole years to calm down again.

The person that all this trouble was about never made an appearance. He didn't go to Sylvia's official funeral. He never went to the grave either. When in public, he always wore the hat, the sunglasses and the formerly bloodstained coat.

He read a lot, though. Mostly about psychology, but also history. He read about the World Wars, the colonization, the whole american history.

After some time, he bought himself a small house in the suburbs. He owned a cat for some time, but it ran away later.

He fed the pigeons in the local park every saturday. He never bought a car, but a bike. It was red. The only person he ever talked to was the newspaper man. He bought a newspaper there every morning. The newspaper man was also the only one who knew where he lived.

He didn't make any other contacts.

At night, he rarely slept. He could never be somewhere without looking around himself. He never trusted his own home.

Four years after the trial, he underwent facial surgery. Now he named himself Paul Carrey, had red hair, a bigger nose and a fuller mouth.

He still always wore the hat, the sunglasses and the coat in public.

He chatted with the newspaper man every now and then. His name was George.

They became something like friends.

The first time Paul Carrey visited George's home was also the last time. He felt watched the entire time.

He always felt watched. He couldn't walk ten metres without turning around, waiting for people to follow him. When they did because they had the same way as him, he ran. Every time.

He hated going to the supermarket because of the cameras. He ate less and less and became very thin.

There was always a hounded expression on his face. He turned and startled at every noise. His fingers constantly trembled. George, the newspaper man, was worried.

Paul Carrey always turned around. He never slept longer than three hours before waking up. He always had nightmares.

He bought a device that seeked cameras and bugging devices. He never went anywhere without it.

He bought burglar alarms. Not even a cat could enter his property without him noticing.

He started watching. The entire day. He would just stand there and watch the street. Every minute, he would turn around to look whether there was someone behind him.

He was sure that the old lady from across the street was observing him. The six-year old boy at the playground in the park. The cashier at the supermarket. That the next car that passed was blue was not a coincidence. It was no coincidence that he saw the young couple in the park every day. They were not just art students drawing trees. They were observing, looking, staring whenever they thought he wouldn't notice.

It was everybody. Everybody was waiting for him. Everybody was looking at him from the corners of their eyes. It was all planned, schemed, thought through. It was everywhere, everybody, everytime.

It was noon on a day in late summer. The man entered the door and officer Rayne looked up from her paperwork to see old George, the newspaper man.

"George.", she smiled. "How can I help you?"

"Good day, officer Rayne.", the man said. "I am worried about my friend. I didn't see him last week, nor the one before. I rang at his house, but nobody was there."

George was such a sweet old man that Rayne decided she could go with him to look after his friend.

"He said he never intended to go anywhere else, not even into the city.", George told her on their way to the house.

The front door was locked, but the back door was open. Carefully, Rayne went into the house.

"Hello?", she called. "Is anybody here?" Where did this horrible smell came from?

Then she saw it. Or rather, him.

"Oh my god.", she whispered.

On the floor there was a man. Or rather, a corpse in a pool of blood, gun next to him. And a paper. It was simple white print-out paper, and there were four words written on it in capitals with unsteady fingers:

_I AM TRUMAN BURBANKS._

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**I was never one for happy endings... tell me what you think, please!**

**Also, thanks for reading so far :)**

**~TheOwletQueen**


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